When you were 9, you parents remodeled the kitchen. It was all stainless steel, spotless metal, simplistic stylish perfection.
A week before it's completion, when the faucet heads were still in the sinks and the tiles weren't bleached within an inch of their lives, a mysterious fire roared through the kitchen.
You parents were appalled. Dick, they said, Dickie, that was very very bad. You're 9 now, you should know better.
Except it wasn't your fault.
You smoked your first bowl at 13. Logan Echolls' parents were in Paris for the week, promoting their new movie and he was left alone. You're old enough now, Logan. Just lock the doors. I'll know if you broke anything. The weed burned at your throat, and your eyes were watering, but Logan looked like a pro so you kept it in, held back the cough until he was out of earshot, let it roar through you because you couldn't breathe.
You woke up disoriented in the middle of the night, stumbling over tumbled sneakers and remnants of your evening. You broke his father's $7,000 candelabra, the gold and red shards shattering over the floor and cutting at your feet. He didn't yell as he helped you pick up the pieces, didn't say he hated you or that you were dumb or stupid.
A week later he came to school with a black eye and a broken nose, self-deprecating jokes about his clumsiness oozing from every pore. You don't know why, but you could never quite believe him.
Beaver died and they said he was bad. Wrong in the head, sick, battered, molested. They said it was all his fault, that he could have handled it differently, there were so many other ways of survival.
But you're not sure if you weren't the bad one after all.